Thieves Of Mercy

TWELVE

Also by direction of the President, our vessels shelled Sewell’s Point yesterday mainly with the view of ascertaining the practicability of landing a body of troops thereabouts. The Merrimack came out, but was even more cautious than ever.

FLAG OFFICER L. M. GOLDSBOROUGH TO GIDEON WELLES

The tug rolled along under a perfect blue sky, the black smoke from her funnel standing out bold against that background until it was pulled apart by the breeze, the bow cutting a neat wake through the water of Hampton Roads. They were closer now to Confederate country than Union.

“Mr. President,” said Molly in her accented French, “I think you are single-handedly invading the South.” Stanton translated. Lincoln smiled.

“No, ma’am. I am simply borrowing the army and navy for a little while, to see if I can make the dog hunt.” Stanton translated, stumbling over the idiom, making an awkward translation. Wendy stepped in and explained. “You Americans!” Molly said. “Is it any wonder we find you all so charming?” They closed with the shore and Lincoln picked up a pair of field glasses, ran them along east to west. A man stepped out of the wheelhouse, thin with a lined face and round spectacles, a well-worn derby pushed down on his head, a scroll of paper like an old royal pronouncement held under his arm. He approached, in a deferential way. Not a man who was close to the President, not one who was comfortable in the presence of power, like the Secretary of War or the wife of the Norwegian minister.

“Captain, set that right here,” Lincoln said, pushing the lemonade glasses out of the way, begging the ladies’ forgiveness. The man with the derby unrolled the paper on the table. Wendy looked as close as she dared. It was a map of Hampton Roads and the shoreline. A chart, she corrected herself.

Lincoln weighted the edges with glasses and the pitcher. The man in the derby studied it, embarrassed by the company.

“Forgive my manners, ladies, my mind is elsewhere,” Lincoln said. “Mrs. Nielsen, Miss Atkins, this is Captain Robin Walbridge, the finest pilot in Hampton Roads. He is assisting me in finding a suitable place to land troops.”

Wendy translated. Molly just nodded. “We are pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” Wendy said. Captain Walbridge mumbled, nodded, studied the chart.

“Right here, sir,” Walbridge said, speaking very low, whether out of a concern for security or shyness Wendy could not tell. He pointed a thick finger at a place on the chart. Wendy let her eyes wander over the paper, trying to appear bored and disinterested. “This point is the point you see right yonder, sir.” He turned and pointed at the shoreline. Lincoln looked from chart to shore and back, nodded his big head.

Now Lincoln ran a finger over the chart. “It would appear that there is water enough here for Merrimack to sail,” he said.

“Aye, sir. They say she draws around twenty-three foot of water, so yes, she could certainly get within range of her guns.”

Lincoln nodded. “Very well. Let’s keep looking.”

They cruised along the shore, poking in and out of Willoughby Bay, rounding the sand spit that made up the bay’s northern shore. Beyond the bow, the Chesapeake Bay opened up, north to south, and beyond that, the open ocean. Wendy felt a thrill at the sight of it, a thrill that carried her beyond the tension of her circumstance. “Oh, such beauty!” she said.

Lincoln looked up. “What might that be, Miss Atkins? I know you’re not speaking in reference to me.”

“Oh, sir…” Wendy felt herself blush. “The ocean, Mr. President. It is so beautiful, and it is so rare that I see it.”

Oh, Lord, we’re supposed to have just completed a sea voyage!

Wendy felt herself tense from the gaffe, and she waited for Lincoln to point it out, but all he said was, “I see it rarely myself, though I can’t say I miss it. I miss the rivers of the West more. Tell me, miss, where is it you are from?”

“ Culpepper, Virginia, sir.” Off balance, Wendy blurted it out, and even as the words left her mouth she tried to check them, which made the blunder even worse. She met Lincoln ’s eyes, his expressionless face, and she felt her cheeks burn. Her stomach twisted up, her palms felt wet. She wanted to explain, to pour out more lies on top of what she had said, but her judgment had not abandoned her completely and she kept her mouth shut.

Lincoln nodded. For a moment he did not say a word. “I’ve never been,” he said at last. “I hear it’s nice.”

“Nice, sir, but far from the sea. And now in enemy hands, I fear. I am happier in Maryland, where I can at least enjoy the bay.”

Lincoln nodded again. His face was unreadable. “Forgive me,” he said, and picked up the field glasses once more and trained them on the shoreline.

They steamed in silence for five minutes or so, five horrible minutes while Wendy replayed in her head every word, every nuance of her fifty-second conversation with the President. Finally Captain Walbridge, who had been standing as far away as he could and still remain one of the party at the table, gave a low cough, a signal he was about to speak.

“Mr. President… the beach you see yonder? Good landing beach, sir. Surf generally ain’t too much. Sandy shore, easy on the boats, sir. And there’s not a devil of a chance of that Merrimack getting out here. Beg pardon, ladies.”

Wendy smiled and nodded. Molly looked as if she neither understood nor cared. Lincoln looked through the field glasses at the shore. Stanton stood up, planted a hand on the table, looked down at the chart.

“Captain Walbridge,” Lincoln said, never taking the field glasses from his eyes, “please ask the lieutenant to get in as close as he can to the shore.”

“Aye, sir,” Walbridge said, and strode off quickly to the wheelhouse. The tug turned, ran inshore at an oblique angle, the surf rolling white, the tall dune grass, the yellow sand beach all becoming more discernible as they closed with the land.

Stanton picked up another pair of field glasses. “Look at those dogs, following us on horseback!” he exclaimed. Wendy could see the horsemen, riding along the beach, gray-clad on brown mounts. If only they knew who was looking on them now! How desperate they would be to spread the word!

“Shall I have the lieutenant give them a round or two?” Stan-ton asked. “Load of grape? Get them all in one shot.”

“No, Mr. Stanton, I think not,” Lincoln said.

“There’s a chance they’ll divine what we’re about, Mr. President. Could give the Rebels time to organize a defense against our landing.”

“I imagine they’ll be more suspicious if we start shooting at them.” Lincoln stood and looked down at Walbridge, returning from the wheelhouse. The pilot was a good head shorter than the President. “Captain, I do believe we have found the place to land our troops. Do you agree?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Reckon it’ll answer. Good landing place, no chance of Merrimack interfering.”

“Very well. Stanton, let’s get back to Fortress Monroe and see Wool is motivated to move his men.” Lincoln turned to the women. “Miss Atkins, pray tell Mrs. Nielsen that we will soon have her off this disagreeable tug and quartered in more comfortable surroundings.”

Wendy translated. Molly nodded. “Please tell Mr. Lincoln that I require the use of the facilities,” she said.

“Oh…” Wendy felt herself blush. “Ah, sir, my aunt wishes to use… ah… the facilities.”

Lincoln smiled. “Of course. Captain, do you know if the facilities are presentable to a lady?”

“Aye, sir, I reckon. Lieutenant had the heads scrubbed out good, sir, on account of you and Mr. Stanton being aboard.”

“I am pleased to hear it.” A midshipman was summoned, and blushing, stuttering, he led Wendy and Molly down a ladder and a narrow companionway, then along the side deck to a polished wooden door.

“Ah, ma’am, this here’s… ah…”

“Thank you, young man,” Wendy said. “We can find our way back. You may leave us.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the clearly relieved midshipman said. He began to salute, hesitated, turned, and practically ran back down the side deck, disappearing around the front of the deckhouse.